


Picking Up the Pieces

by Gabriel_Is_My_Guardian_Angel89



Category: iZombie (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, depressed!blaine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-20 21:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16563512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabriel_Is_My_Guardian_Angel89/pseuds/Gabriel_Is_My_Guardian_Angel89
Summary: Blaine is still depressed over the death of Angus and is trying to drown his sorrows.





	Picking Up the Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> this came about from a very vague dream i had a few months ago where for some odd reason i was extracting glass from Blaine’s hands and chest. i think it was probably after a fight, but this was what came out instead.

It had only been a couple days since the Russian Roulette incident and you and Don E. had been keeping a watchful eye over Blaine. He was still hurting over Angus’ death, even if the bastard didn’t deserve to be mourned. The man had been nothing but horrible to Blaine his whole life, but still, it was his father. Much as Blaine hated him, you knew that he never truly wished the man dead. Angus’ passing was taking its toll on Blaine, hard. He had spent the past few days trying to drink himself into oblivion, leaving the rest of you to pick up the slack. But you understood. Losing a parent was like losing a piece of yourself. Sometimes, no amount of hate could override that.

You were in down in Shady Plot’s basement working on filling the first Fillmore-Graves order. The deal with Major was showing promise, the increase in man-power, well, _zombie_ -power, had already led to a double in the amount of brains you all were able to smuggle into the city. The new-found partnership had done little to distract Blaine though. He left most of the organizing to you, Don E., and Candy, preferring to spend most of his time either at The Scratching Post or hidden away in his office here at the lesser used funeral home.

You heard the sound of glass breaking upstairs and went to investigate. Making your way to Blaine’s office you could smell the sharp tang of spilled whiskey in the air. The sight you came upon made your heart clench in sympathy. You had always cared for Blaine, maybe a little more than you should have given his bloody past. It tore at you to see him suffering over someone who didn’t deserve a second thought.

Blaine was slouched back in his chair, that pained look on his face that you had seen so much of these days. Broken glass and liquor pooled on the desk, the whiskey making its way slowly to the floor. Blaine had one hand held up, blood dripping from a few cuts. In his other hand, he brought a half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker Black up to his lips, a grimace marring his features as he swigged it down. You hovered in the doorway for a second before going to retrieve a few towels and something to remove the glass you had seen sticking out of Blaine’s hand.

You approached Blaine slowly, setting one of the towels over the puddle on the desk first, before taking the bottle from Blaine and setting it out of his reach. Blaine looked up at you, a half-hearted huff of anger leaving his lips.

“Really, y/n? So, what, you’re cutting me off?” Blaine sat up a bit straighter as you wedged yourself between him and the desk, reaching out for the hand that was embedded with glass.

“Well, I generally tend to think that a liquor-induced injury is a sign that one has had enough to drink, so yeah, Blaine, you’re done for the night. Here, gimme your hand. You know those cuts won’t heal right if the glass is still in them.” He gave you his hand after you set the extra towel aside for the moment.  
You held his hand in one of yours gingerly, grasping the biggest shard of glass carefully, not wanting any of it to break off further as you pulled it out. He let out a hiss of pain as you worked on his wounds. Every so often, you looked up to find him watching your movements carefully, his brows furrowed in concentration. Five minutes later, you removed the last piece of glass and set it on the table with a soft plink. You wiped away the blood with the clean towel, not bothering to wrap his hand, knowing it would soon heal now.

You sat back against the desk, his hand still in yours, and took a moment to truly look at him. His face seemed paler than normal, the circles around his eyes deeper. The pale blue of his irises were starting to darken. “Blaine, when’s the last time you’ve eaten? You look like you’re starting to go Romero.”

“Well, let’s see…when was the attack on the city wall? Three days ago? Four? I’ve lost count. Honestly, what does it matter, anyway?” He leaned back in his chair but made no attempt pull his hand away from yours, seeming to take a small comfort in the contact.

“Of course it matters! Blaine, _you_  matter. The zombies of New Seattle would be starving if it weren’t for you. Look, I know you’re still upset over what happened to Angus, but please, don’t keep torturing yourself like this.” You squeezed his hand slightly before letting go and standing up. “There’s some fresh brain pate I brought back from the restaurant in the fridge, I’ll go get you some. You need to sober up.” You gathered up the mess of glass and wet towels before leaving the office, making sure to take the bottle of whiskey with you on your way out.

You returned a few minutes later carrying a tray laden with the pate and some crackers, along with a glass of water and some aspirin. Even zombies got hangovers. Blaine was staring off into space, his injured hand still right where you had set it, palm upward on his thigh. You set the tray on his desk and went over to him. Bending down to eye-level, you took his hand in yours again, causing him to look at you.

“Blaine, you are so much more than one horrible man’s opinion of you. What he put you through? No one deserves that. Have you done terrible things yourself? Yes. But what you’re putting yourself through, right now, it’s not worth it. _He’s_  not worth it. I hope you realize there are people here who care about you, no matter what. If you ever need to talk, you are not alone. I know what you are going through. That feeling of being torn between your hatred and your loss. Don’t let his death destroy you. You matter too much. To this city, to, to me.”

You gave him a small smile before standing back up and heading out of the office, pausing to look back at him. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

Blaine stared at your retreating figure and then at the empty space of his doorway for a few minutes, his thoughts slowly turning from those of his father to the words you had said. Maybe all was not lost after all.


End file.
